Horror and Science Fiction

Gut Feeling

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“I'm going to recommend you see another specialist,” Dr. Moore tore the top sheet from his prescription pad and handed it to Greg.

Greg took the slip from the doc and stared at in confusion. “A psychiatrist?” he blurted. “You're sending me to a shrink? It's not my head that's killing me, Doc, it's my gut. What good would a shrink do me?”

He wadded the paper, let it drop to the floor. “After all this time you don't believe there's anything wrong with me? You think I'm crazy, a hypochondriac?”

“Calm down, Greg," Dr. Moore's voice was calm, cool, professional. "No one thinks you're crazy, it's just that your condition seems to be more psychological than physiological.”

“What about the cramps?” Greg protested. “What about the mind-numbing, gut-wrenching pain, huh, Doc? You think I'm making that up in my head?”

The doctor answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. “The pain is real, to you," he said. "But there is no apparent physical cause for your pain. There is nothing wrong with your body that would cause these attacks of yours.”

There's nothing wrong with your body. The words stung. How could the doc say such a thing? He might as well just flat out say “Greg, you're freakin' nuts!” But Greg wasn't crazy -- his pain was real, it was physical. Pain so intense, so overpowering he'd been unable to work in months, so awful he couldn't lead his life with any semblance of normalcy. He never knew when an attack would come; he could be at work, behind the wheel or tucked safely in bed. The attacks came like a tornado dropping from the Kansas sky, tearing, rending, destroying, leaving pain and misery in its wake before vanishing as quickly as it had come, leaving him a weeping, ruined wreck. He'd been lucky so far in that he hadn't been doing seventy down a highway when it hit. He shuddered to think of the consequences.

“I just don't understand why you haven't found something, anything, wrong with me, Doc," he said. "There is something wrong down there, I can feel it, and I truly believe it's killing me.”

"Be reasonable, Greg. There's just no evidence --"

"But what about my family history?" Greg protested. "Cancer everywhere, on both sides. It could be colon cancer. My father, my uncle --"

The doctor stopped him with a raised hand. "Please, Greg, we've been through this before. Your father had lymphoma and your uncle's lung cancer came from thirty years of smoking three packs a day. There is no correlation there. I understand your fears, Greg. I really do. But they are unfounded. You're fine."

Greg laughed, a mocking, scoffing laugh. "I am not fine, Dr. Moore. I am anything but fine! How can I get you to understand that?"

Dr. Moore leaned forward, elbows on knees, finger tips together as in prayer.

“Greg,” he said softly. “I have done everything I can possibly do for you. We've run test after test after test: Three CT scans, nothing; two colonoscopies, nothing; ultrasounds, nothing; blood test, nothing. It's not colitis, not diverticulitis, it's not Crohn's disease or IBD. It's not a hernia and there are no blockages, tumors or cysts. There is nothing abnormal in your physiology. We've done everything we can for you, Greg, and now your insurance company is refusing to authorize payment for any more tests. And I don't blame them: There is nothing physically wrong with you.

“Now I can't force you to see Dr. Freedman,” he picked up the crumpled paper, smoothing it across his knee. “But he's a good man, a brilliant psychiatrist, and I truly believe he is the only one who can help you. I know I can't.”

He handed the slip back to Greg. "Do the right thing: See Dr. Freedman. Please?”

Greg stared at the wrinkled paper. “Sure,” he mumbled. “Sure.”

He didn't need to see a psychiatrist, he knew that, but Dr. Moore was right about one thing; the stupid insurance company wasn't going to cover any more tests, let alone treatment, until they saw physical evidence of his affliction. So with that thought in mind he called Dr. Freedman's office and scheduled an appointment. If he could convince the shrink his illness was not psychosomatic, that it was physical, then he could go back to Dr. Moore and they could force the insurance company to cooperate. It was a desperate move, but it was his only hope.

About Greg's age, Dr. Freedman reminded Greg of the geeks in high school who always sat at the front of the class, blowing the bell curve with every test they aced. Long limbed and gangly, with an angular, bird-like face, the psychiatrist was the kind of guy Greg would have picked on mercilessly thirty years ago. The irony of this was not lost on Greg.

Dr. Moore must have sent Greg's file on ahead, as the head shrinker kept referring to a folder on his desk as he drilled Greg on every medical test and procedure he had endured over the last six months.

Greg patiently answered his questions, filling in missing details and offering explanations as necessary. At length the psychiatrist closed the folder and plopped it on his desk. “These are just facts, Greg,” he said, leaving his desk and folding his lanky body into an overstuffed chair across from his patient.

“Now I just want us to talk awhile, just so I can get to know you better.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably in his own overstuffed chair, suddenly very aware of where he was, of just who it was he was talking to -- A Head Shrinker. He felt like a germ under a microscope, and he didn't care for it one little bit.

“Please,” the doctor prompted. “Tell me a little about yourself. Start anywhere you'd like. I'm listening.”

Greg sat in uncomfortable silence as Dr. Freedman crossed his legs and settled back in his chair. Greg cleared his throat self-consciously, looking around the comfortably appointed office, his eyes settling at last upon the good doctor's wall of diplomas. He wondered idly if the display was meant to reassure patients or intimidate them.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” he said at last.

Dr. Freedman smiled, still saying nothing.

“I have these, um, attacks, I guess you'd call them, here, in my gut,” Greg pointed to his abdomen. "When they first started -- about six months ago -- they weren't too bad. Mild diarrhea, some cramping, that sort of thing. Dr. Moore diagnosed it as Diverticulitis and gave me some antibiotics. That seemed to help at first but then the pain came back, only different, and worse."

"Different how?" Dr. Freedman prompted.

"Well, it moves around, for one thing," Greg said. "Sometimes it's on my left side, other times it's on the right. Sometimes way up high," he indicated a spot just under his rib cage, "and other times it's way down low. And sometimes I can actually feel it move around, like there's some thing moving around in there. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true." Greg laughed nervously, wishing he could take back that last part. He hurried on. "Now it seems Dr. Moore doesn't have a clue as to what's wrong and he's jumped to the ludicrous conclusion that just because he can't find anything physically wrong with me it must all be in my head. And on top of that, just to make things worse, my blood-sucking insurance company says they won't pay for anymore tests to find out what's really wrong with me. So that's why I'm here, Dr. Freedman: I need you to tell them it's not psychosomatic, that I'm not a hypochondriac, that I'm not crazy. Then they'll be forced to pay for more tests and I can get this thing out of my gut."

Dr. Freedman had been scribbling on his pad throughout Greg's discourse, silent save for the occasional “Hmm."

Greg finished his tale of woe and fell silent, waiting for the great man's pronouncement.

"Do you sometimes feel taken for granted, Greg?" the doctor said at long last. "Do you sometimes yearn for attention from your friends, from your wife?"

"What?"

"How often do you make love with your wife? Once a week? A couple times a month? Less?"

"I'm sorry, doc," Greg stammered, taken aback by this approach. "You've lost me. What does my sex life have to do with this pain in my gut?"

Dr. Freedman leaned forward, closer to Greg, as if he were about to share the answer to life, the universe and everything. "Sometimes, Greg," he said, "when a person feels neglected, especially by someone they care deeply for, such as a spouse or a parent, they create scenarios in their mind where they become the center of attention, the focal point of the relationship, if you will."

The doctor sat back in his chair, crossing his legs again, as if he had actually explained something. “Tell me about your childhood, Greg. Were you frequently ill? How would you describe your relationship with your mother? Did you ever feel neglected or ignored by her?”

"What does my mother have to do with anything?" Greg interrupted. "She's been dead for years.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, stop it with your 'Hmm!' Listen doc, I don't need to be psychoanalyzed and I don't want to talk about my mother, my father or my great-aunt Sue. I just need you to tell Dr. Moore I'm not crazy so I can get this thing out of my gut!”

What a crock of psychobabble BS! Greg wanted nothing more than to punch the looney's lights out, but that would have played right into his plan, proving Greg really was crazy. Instead he stomped out while he could still control his anger, ignoring the doctor's pleas for him to stay, to at least make a follow up appointment so they could get to the root of his hostility towards his mother.

What a senseless waste of time and money.

Debbie was not pleased when he told her what happened.

“You're going back though, right?” she said, looking up from the laundry she was folding on the couch.

“Did you not hear all the words coming out of my mouth? No, I'm not going back! The man's an idiot!”

Debbie pursed her lips, giving him her Very Serious Look.

“I think you should go back,” she said firmly.

Greg couldn't believe his ears. “Deb, why would I go back to see that quack, huh? What possible good would it do me? I don't need a shrink, I need a real doctor. My pain is in my gut, not my head.”

Debbie placed a stack of neatly folded underwear in a pile, saying nothing.

“You believe my pain is real, don't you?” He was worried now. “Well, don't you?”

She sighed, a weary, pain-filled sigh. “I don't know what to say, Greg. I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to do." She plopped her hands in her lap as if she didn't know what to do with them either. "You haven't worked in months. Our savings are gone. We're two months behind on the mortgage and all you can do is lay around the house, moaning and complaining --”

“Because I'm hurting!”

“But Dr. Moore says --”

“Dr. Moore,” Greg yelled, “is an incompetent twit! He couldn't find his own head if you nailed his hands to his forehead!“

“But the tests, Greg," Debbie protested. "What about the tests?”

“The tests were inconclusive,” he admitted. “But just because they didn't find anything wrong doesn't prove there isn't something wrong. They're just looking in the wrong place, or at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, that's all. I know they'll find something if only I can get the insurance to pay for more tests.”

He took her face gently in his hands the way she liked, looking deep into her big, beautiful eyes, eyes so brown he could lose himself in them if he wasn't careful. “I need to know you believe me, Kitten," he said softly. "I need to know you're going to be with me while we figure this thing out.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close.

“I don't think I can get through this without you,” he whispered in her ear, kissing it lightly.

She pushed him back, pulling away his arms with surprising strength, pain clouding her pretty little face.

“You're going to have to,” she said, her voice so low he must have misheard.

“What?”

“You're going to have to get through this without me,” she said louder this time. “I'm leaving.”

He froze, unable to speak, to move, to breathe. What did she just say?

"You -- you don't love me anymore?" he stammered.

"I didn't say that."

"But you're leaving! If you love me why are you leaving?" He tried to come in close, to touch her cheek, but was rebuffed by a look and a hand.

"Okay," she said, smearing away an errant tear with the back of a hand. "I do love you, but I can't be with you, not now, not the way things are now. Please understand; I still love you – that hasn't changed – but I can't stay here and watch you go crazy, Greg. I just can't do it. I'm just not that strong. Whatever it is you're going through it's something you'll have to handle yourself. Does that make any sense?” She studied his face, frowning at what she saw there. “I guess not,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

"Oh, it makes sense, alright,” he growled. “You think I'm crazy! You've been talking to Dr. Moore and Dr. Freedman and you're on their side! I see it now, you're all in on it. You all think I'm crazy!"

"I'm on your side, Greg!" She was crying now, thick, heavy tears spilling onto her cheeks in dark mascara rivulets. "Please remember that; I'm always on your side. But..." her voice trailed away to nothing. She opened the closet and pulled out their best suitcase, the one with the wheels and the handle, the one they'd bought for Hawaii two years ago. Somehow he just knew it was packed and ready to go. This was no spur of the moment decision; she had this all planned out.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Greg begged. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it, okay? Tell me how to fix this!"

"Go back to Dr. Freedman, Greg," she said. "Call him right now. Make an appointment right now. Go see him every day if you have to. Get better, okay?" She headed to the door, the suitcase trailing behind her like a well-healed dog. She turned to give him one last look. "I'll check in with you sometime, to see how things are going. I'll be at my mother's. Please don't call."

And then she was gone. No kiss. No hug. No goodbye. Nothing.

He'd never felt so alone.

Picture a man, forty-something, slightly balding, love handles just beginning to peek over his belt, jobless, wifeless, helpless, hopeless. Meet Greg Wilson, who, until just recently, had what most would consider a pretty darn good life; a pretty, loving wife, a nice house, a well-paying job, good health. Gone now. All gone.

He sat alone in the darkening living room of his too-empty house, not bothering to turn on a lamp, to close the curtains, to feed or bathe himself. It was his second night here, alone, in the dark. The thought of sleeping in a Debbie-less bed was much too much for his fragile ego just now. He'd taken a beating, an emotional whipping, and he felt it; every inch of his soul ached with a pain worse than he could have imagined. She was gone. She had walked out -- hadn't even looked back! -- leaving him to battle his demon alone. The one person in his life he'd trusted with his loftiest dreams, his deepest fears, the person he'd vowed to care for and love the rest of his life, the person who'd vowed to care for and love him the rest of her life. Gone. She was gone. There was no script for this scene: What was he supposed to do next?

The fact that not even Debbie believed his pain was real was far worse than the pain itself. What did these people want from him? How was he supposed to convince them this was real, keel over and die right there in front of them? Would Debbie believe him if he fell to the ground, spilling his guts before her? Would Dr. Moore believe he was really sick if he curled up and died right there in his waiting room? Would Dr. Freedman still think it was all in his head if a bloody little monster baby burst from his gut a-la Alien?

If Dr. Freedman was right, that Greg's pain was a pitiful attempt to gain a little attention, to get some love, then all he could say was there were a lot easier, less horrible ways to get attention. Greg couldn't imagine anyone desperate enough to do this to themselves, to create this horrible pain in their subconscious mind. No, his pain was real and that's all there was to it. He may be all alone in his belief, but that did not make him wrong.

There had been more attacks since Debbie left, flaring up like a blow torch. The searing, scorching pain left him curled up on the floor praying to God to just go ahead and strike him dead right then and there. Pain such as now man could possibly deserve, pain no man could possibly endure. Hell's own minions could not inflict such torture. Seriously, at this point offing himself was about the best solution Greg could come up with. This was no way to go through life so he might as well be dead. A bullet in the brain pan, that sounded good. A brief flash, then nothing. Very enticing.

It was three in the morning, the darkest hour before the dawn. He was up, of course, had been all night; sleep was no longer Greg's friend, dancing away mockingly whenever he drew close. The TV was on, as it always was these days. The sound of disembodied voices made the house seem less empty, less Debbie-less. The screen flickered in the dark with one of those classic B sci-fi flicks he used to loved so much back when he had a life. The attack caught him off guard, the pain rushing him like a three-hundred pound linebacker, laying him flat with one hit. He doubled over, gasping at the suddenness, the sheer intensity of it. Never had it been like this before. This was new, more intense. His gut twisted and turned under his fingers like a sack of angry snakes, the soft mound of his belly distending, then contracting, deforming and puckering. Little bulges moved under his flesh, like tiny little claws in a balloon.

Jesus God kill me now!

Mercifully, he passed out, waking hours later in a sticky mess of his own filth. He probed his abdomen gently, trying to assess the damage without disturbing whatever was in there. It had happened, hadn't it? He'd seen what he'd seen, hadn't he? What did it mean? Was he dying? Was there any way to rid himself of his unwanted guest?

He felt drained of all energy and despite his anxiety exhaustion overcame him and he quickly fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamed in disconnected vignettes -- Debbie laughing at him, Dr. Freedman shaking his head condescendingly, his mother harping at him to stop whining and just grow up already. He could read their minds, knew exactly what each was thinking: Poor Greg! He's off his rocker, gone completely bonkers. Poor, poor man! Such a shame, too -- he was so young.

He awoke with a jerk, disoriented at first, his chin slick and silvery with drool. Another B-movie flickered in shades of black and white on the TV, this one about giant ants terrorizing the desert. The handsome scientist-hero was lobbing chemical cannisters down a giant ant hill, poisoning the monsters as they huddled in their lair. Something clicked then, some contact closed, completing a circuit in Greg's mind and suddenly all became clear.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

He laughed, loud, hard, an eerie kind of laugh that would have scared Debbie if she'd been there. It damn near frightened him. He knew what to do with a crystal clarity of pure reason he'd never experienced before. Frightening, yes, but exhilarating as well. He'd never been so sure, so certain about anything in his life. This would work.

He staggered from the couch into the kitchen, rummaging around under the sink till he found what he was looking for. He grabbed a cleaning bucket and carried the whole mess back to the couch. He plopped the bottles on the coffee table and began mixing generous amounts from each in his bucket: Drain-o, rat poison, bleach, ant killer. He sloshed the deadly brew around till all the clumps dissolved, the mixture bubbling and hissing vilely from the bottom of the bucket. It was a foul looking concoction, with an odor to match, but it would do the trick; there was not one doubt in his mind about that. He laughed at his brilliance, giddy as a third grader on the first day of summer vacation. His brain was on fire. He'd never felt so invincible, so alive! He was going to be free!

His gut churned and grumbled in vain protest, as if the thing inside him knew what was coming. He had to hurry before the creature could make its escape, before it could mount a counter assault, sweeping him to oblivion with relentless waves of fiery pain.

"Here comes, sucker!" he cackled. "Prepare to die!"

As bad as the potion looked and smelled it didn't taste half bad. Kind of burned going down, but not bad. It was sweet almost, like soda. Fizzy, too, as it bubbled up in his throat.

He lay back on the couch, grinning like an idiot, confident his victory was won.

For days Debbie couldn't stop thinking something was wrong, that Greg needed her. Despite her best efforts to ignore the feeling she had to admit she was worried. Twenty-two years of living with someone gives you a kind of sixth sense, tunes you in to their brain waves, and when he didn't answer the phone for three days she knew something was very wrong. Despite her mother's objections she had to see him, had to make sure he was okay.

She had a bad feeling as she let herself in. The house was dark and she gagged at the overpowering stench. Dear God, what is that?

Holding a tissue over her nose, she fumbled for a light. "Greg?" she called. "Greg? Are you home?"

She found him on the couch, the TV babbling to itself in the corner. He lay in a mess of dried blood, feces and vomit, an empty bucket at his feet, an assortment of empty bottles and containers scattered across the table. She checked for a pulse, expecting none, finding none. Softly, gently, she stroked his hair, as if she feared waking him. "Oh my sweetheart," she sobbed. "What have you done?"

She turned slowly away, intending to call nine-one-one, but stopped short when she saw something on the floor, halfway under the couch, its body nearly dissolved by the onslaught of Greg's chemical cocktail. A tiny little creature, a thing, just like Greg said, it's face frozen in fear, its clawed hands outstretched as if to ward off some horrible enemy.

The End